


Boccaccio

by phantomofthetrashcan



Series: Erik and Christine's adventures in premarital sex [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Masturbation, Old-timey porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 03:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18217361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomofthetrashcan/pseuds/phantomofthetrashcan
Summary: All she wished to do was look at the books, yet Christine receives much more than she bargained for.





	Boccaccio

**Author's Note:**

> Is the first piece of fanfic I've ever finished smut? Yes, yes it is. Is the first piece of fiction I've ever finished Phantom of the Opera smut? Yes, indeed it is. Enjoy :, )

Christine Daae liked to think of herself as a fairly pure and virtuous woman, as God-fearing as any good Catholic who made sure to attend mass regularly outside of those all were morally obligated to attend.

And yet, as she sipped her, now cold, tea, sitting cross-legged upon the generously carpeted floor of the dimly-lit sitting-room, she found her eyes continuously wandering from the book she was supposed reading to a particular row of decidedly un-virtuous volumes three shelves above where she was able to reach in the bookcase.  

It wasn’t as if Erik had explicitly forbidden her from reading any particular books in his massive collection, on the contrary. He insisted she immerse herself in all the literature that had been denied to her throughout her unfortunate childhood, even going so far as to give her some of his own recommendations (which she had promptly devoured and provided him with her own lengthy dissertations on how Kant was a genius, Schopenhauer a hack, and Dostoevsky a madman). Yet, Christine could not shake the feeling that  _those_ books were ones he did not intend her to _notice_ much less read.

Many were guides to the fundamentals of human physiology in regards to reproduction, which seemed innocent enough at the time when had she first examined that singular row. They preceded books that, at the time, seemed equally innocent in that they dealt with the subject of marriage and children. It was only with the bold, gilded letters of the _Kama Sutra_ that she began to realize the pattern. With a quick scan over Rétif, Cleland, Sacher-Masoch, de Boyer, de Sade, and numerous, numerous Anonymouses she practically bolted after her host to continue their little tour with a face that she was sure was as red as the crimson Wedgwood teacup she drank from, which, after what may have very well been ten minutes, finally left her lips to sit in it’s matching saucer.

Erik had been composing for three whole days now, leaving his music room only to occasionally drink a cup of water (if that). She would dare to venture into the pitch blackness to give him his meals, which he ate unconsciously in between murmurs of foreign languages and tonalities, eyes wide and staring through the ink-stained pages before him, unaware of the honey-brown eyes shyly perusing his person.   

Christine tried to focus on the tiny cherubs and nymphs painted into what little wallpaper was visible between the mahogany bookcases and curio cabinets instead of summoning the images of his long, thin fingers pressing firmly and confidently into the ivory keys of his organ, the tendons of his hands and exposed forearms tensing and relaxing as he played.

It didn’t work.

She shifted as she felt a very familiar ache make itself known below her waist.  

She really did think herself to be virtuous, especially considering her chosen profession. Now, however, she was beginning to feel some doubt enter her mind as she felt whispers of her urges and promises of self-satisfaction tease at her consciousness.

It was Sorelli who gave an official name to it for her. Christine herself had been doing _it_ for quite some time, after discovering the secrets of her own body as she rapidly approached womanhood, but up until then had been quite sure it was a mysterious phenomenon exclusive only to herself.

“Men!” said one of the older girls on that particular Tuesday afternoon.

“Who needs ‘em!” said another.

The company had broken for lunch that day and Christine found herself, as was usual for her, eating a small buttered roll, watching the ballet rats fool around and talking with the Giry girl, her half-finished costume splayed around her in pool of layered gossamer silk as they sat upon the stage floor next to the prompter’s box, rather than accompanying her fellow vocalists to one of the expensive cafes along the Place Jacques-Rouché as she probably should have.

“Just masturbate, girls, it’ll save you a lot of trouble.” The girls broke from their half-hearted stretches to gasp wide-eyed at their première’s sing-songy words and began to talk all at once.

“Sorelli!”

“Jesus Christ-!”

“You can’t just say those kinds of things-!”

“Oh my God.”

“ _Parce nos Domine_.”

“Father said that girls who do that are taken away by the devil!”

“Of course he did,” Sorelli said nonchalantly as she gave herself a once-over in her copper hand mirror, “Men control women by depriving them of agency to their own sexuality, I read it once in _The Radical._ ”

The grumble among the girls would have typically been an end to the conversation, at least in terms of confronting their superior, until one of the younger members of the corps dared to ask,

“What does…,” her voice shrunk to a whisper, “ _Masturbate_ mean?”

And with the most obscene, devilish grin Christine had ever seen upon Sorelli's face, quickly surrounding herself with a sea of bright eyes and tulle skirts, she began her speech with an elegance Christine thought easily comparable to the orators of Ancient Rome (not that she herself had ever heard them confirm such a thought).

She really had not known it was considered an immoral act, religious or otherwise. Understandably, Papa never saw it fit to discuss such a subject with her. Yet, Christine, living with an unmarried man she was not related to, unchaperoned, who she was, strangely enough, very, very attracted to, felt that in this particular regard God would be merciful upon her poor, delicate, lovestruck soul.

The books called to her once again, giving sweet words and offers of discovering the full, wonderful mysteries of the flesh, inviting her to delve into the forbidden perfumed pages asking only for her to carry them away.

Or sign her name.

She gulped.

Unable to resist the temptation, her eyes finally dragged themselves from Erik’s hideous, half-completed Écorché sitting within a nearby cabinet to the books again. Squinting through her bronze-framed eyeglasses and cocking her head, she took the time to truly peruse the titles without fear of the man in the next room knowing and certainly, as she imagined it, condemning her abhorrent, salacious thoughts.

She recognized most of the authors, whether this knowledge was obtained through her father’s teachings, literary articles in abandoned penny papers, academic dissertations workshopped aloud at a local university restaurant Raoul frequented with her or plain Mother’s gossip she couldn’t  say but she was at least glad she was not completely blind to the contents of the works before her.

De Sade, Ovid, Diderot, Boccaccio, de Boyer and so on were all staples of modern academia, she told herself, perfectly respectable gentlemen scholars held to the highest regard by polite society.

_The Indiscreet Jewels_ caught her eye.

Well, perhaps not entirely respectable.

Certainly, it would not do for a girl with her reputation and character to expose herself to such things, the things she was expected to learn from her future husband on her wedding night and _not_ from books.

Her eyes went to the closed door which led to the music room and _him_.

Surely _learning_ is not sinful, no matter the subject.

Thus, she rose to her stockinged feet and drew to the rolling ladder, carefully pulling it to the correct spot. With a few steps up, grabbing as many books as she could carry, she walked, as softly as she was able, to her delightfully ornate bedroom and silently closed the door behind her.

He will not even notice they have gone, she assured herself and with that she plopped unceremoniously onto her plush mattress, flipping open the cover of the first hard-covered book to a random page.

The sight of a rather large tintype depicting a woman with a gentleman’s member in her mouth was, to say the least, a bit shocking.

She closed the book. What had she gotten herself into?

Quickly grabbing a scrappy volume entitled _Manual for Newly Wedded Women_ from the stack, sans illustrations, thankfully, she began to read.

The first few chapters were fairly conventional, the general expected duties of a wife to her house and her husband, the rearing of children, etiquette, interactions with in-laws and unmarried persons and so on. The section entitled _The Joys of the Flesh between the Bride and Groom and the Begetting of Children_ , however, was what Christine had been wanting, not so secretly, to read.

Now, it should be noted that Christine Daae was not entirely ignorant of the goings-on in the so-called ‘pleasures of the flesh’. She had been raised on a farm, after all, and passed through many pastures and fields of livestock who were substantially less shy about reproduction than their bipedal counterparts. What Christine was not quite aware of, however, was the intricacies of human sexuality and the urges which surpass the typically logical mind of man.

_‘ The mind of a man, dearest readers, is most engaged by that of the visual sort. Though it may at first seem unseemly to any good Christian woman, it must be noted that making your desire to please your husband explicitly visible to him is critical to a happy marriage bed._

_For the purposes of this manual, the author will herein give a collection of suggestions, as she acknowledges the many limitations woman have in properly expressing desire without any sort of guiding hand._

  * __It is of relative fact that the sight of the nude female form is one that most, if not all, men find to be most agreeable. This can also be said for exclusively aesthetic sensibilities but since this is a manual on the subject of marriage and not the analysis of art, reader, we shall be concerning ourselves on engaging the ardor of the husband__



_It was typical of our mothers and grandmothers to remain entirely clothed in the presence of our fathers and grandfathers. I tell you, reader, that in today’s modern world such precautions are not only unnecessary but entirely counterintuitive to retaining one’s right to the husband’s passions. If one finds the house to be entirely too chilly to remove all garments, wearing stockings and the chemise, which can be easily pulled up, is also quite acceptable._

_It is suggested by the author, dearest, dearest reader, that one should, in the privacy of one’s own home, surprise her husband by entering his office or library in the previously suggested state of undress. If you find he ignores you, it is suggested that you ‘play dumb’ and go about your business as if you were not in a state of undress. This is typically successful in arousing the eagerness of the husband._

_Do not be afraid, reader, if the husband finds himself compelled to embrace and ravish you right then and there. This is a natural response and you are encouraged to fully relish in his attentions.’_

She hadn’t truly, intently thought of it before but the image of a man, the man in the next room reacting so passionately to merely the sight of her natural form, as the honorable Madame Clin d’Œil had written, was enough to make her swoon and press her heated face into the silk duvet.

Erik’s long fingers buried in her white-blonde hair, cradling the back of her head and pressing his lips, what little there was of them, to hers.

Erik squeezing her body tightly to his. Would he, could he want her so much that she would feel his sex against her? The thought was enough to send a heady jolt of arousal below. She desperately wished she knew if he felt that way about her.

He loved her, she knew, and she was fairly certain he wished to marry her but whether or not he was interested in the happenings of the marriage bed was not something she had been privy to up until this point.

Erik was a passionate man in all aspects of his life, who knows if or how he would express such passion upon her?

This ache was, indeed, becoming quite, quite bothersome.

_‘ Now, reader, while it is true that the natural form of a woman is enough to satiate the visual desire of a man, there are some things a woman can do to make herself even more desirable. I do not speak of rouging cheeks or the like but rather of using one’s natural body to signal one’s own desire for intercourse (above all men are most passionate when they feel as though they are desired and vice-versa)._

_A rather overt signal would be the erection of the nipples. If not a response to the cold, this phenomenon is also a physiological response to arousal thus informing your husband of your desire. If you, reader, wish to test out the response for yourself simply take the peak with your thumb and forefinger and give a firm pinch.’_

Christine gave pause to that. She had never really given much attention to her breasts unless she was bathing, as she rarely found herself naked, but this suggestion was most intriguing. With that thought, she placed the book page side down upon the bed (so as not to lose her place) and unbuttoned her bodice.

Pulling her arms from the sleeves and draping her cream-colored dress over the back of the vanity chair, unclasping her corset and pulling it from the layers of petticoats, she found herself in the center of her bed timidly untying the knot at the front of her chemise.

She wasn’t quite sure why her nerves were becoming so excited, she was, after all, she insisted to herself, simply following the instructions of a manual.  

A manual for married women intending to seduce their husbands.

She was done for, wasn't she?

She parted her chemise to expose her small, pale breasts and rosy nipples and, after looking at them for a moment, softly caressed what little flesh there was and gave the reddened tips a firm pinch as the Madame had instructed.

Christine wasn’t sure what exactly she was expecting would happen, aside from what the Madame had described in the purpose of the action, but she surely did not expect that it would feel so marvelous nor that it would send another burst of feeling down to her now aching core.

The squeak which escaped her mouth was surprising as well.

It had certainly worked, though. Even though her chemise had fallen to decent form after she released herself, she could see the hardened tips pressing against the fabric, the reddened color faintly visible through the thin material. She could feel heat rise to her face at the sight.

_What would Erik say if he saw you right now?_

She shivered as her mind immediately envisioned her tutor’s, admittedly wretched, face,  as flushed as her own, panting or, dare she think it, growling with desire, an undeniable, delicious, hungry need in his eyes, eyes that darted between hers and the rosy peaks poking through her thin cotton chemise.

She wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the direction her thoughts were going or allow herself to sink into her own desire and give in to the insistent plead for release. She, instead, pulled a different book from the haphazard pile on her plush mattress.

_Kama Sutra_. She had read about this one in the newspapers and overheard the gossip of its scandalous contents from the whispers between housewives gathered at cafes. Erik had two copies, a transcribed version of the original text and the translation made by a certain Mr. Richard Francis Burton. Her English wasn’t as good as she would’ve liked it to be, and her knowledge of Sanskrit was completely non-existent. Perhaps, one day, Erik could tell her what those pages contained but for the present moment, she was content to put the elusive texts to the side.  

The next ‘book’ was, as she discovered, a poorly bound collection of engravings and prints depicting what Christine was quite certain were all sex acts. She felt herself more prepared this time for visual stimulation and, after removing her top petticoat and bustle to sit more comfortably, delicately opened the cardboard cover to a man and woman in a fervent embrace. Granted, both parties were entirely clothed but seeing as the lady was dipped so far in their indecent open-mouthed kiss that she may have fallen if her lover were not supporting her there was a clear sensual undertone, unspoken promises of things to come. Christine was thankful that the first one was relatively tame, ignoring the insistent heat.

The next drawing was of a gentleman leaning against a table with a young lady on her knees, his manhood in her mouth. She wondered what Erik’s manhood looked like or if he would like it if _she_ took him into her mouth, how would he react, what would he say. She flipped the page.

This time the roles were reversed and she felt a renewed flush and excitement run throughout her body as the ‘pool of desire’, as was said, seemed to overflow, feeling wetness spread onto the delicate inside of her thighs. The lady in the engraving was in an obvious state of ecstasy as her lover buried his face into her womanhood, openmouthed. Did men really, truly like to taste the womanhood of their beloved? Christine imagined that the act would be an awfully wonderful experience for the receiver.

Sorelli once told her, as they assisted the younger girls in their weekly scheme to embarrass the ballet master, that men were very selfish, especially when it comes to lovemaking.

“All they care about is their own satisfaction,” she had said as she carefully stuck a pin on the underside of the ballet master’s cane handle, “should a man be a rare one who actually bothers to bring off his girl do not be fooled, he’s just brought off by his girl being brought off.”

Was Erik that rare sort of man? The thought of Erik being aroused by her being aroused made her, well, rather aroused.

Well, she thought to herself, this _was_ his own collection.

She froze as the sudden realization struck her.

These are _his_ books. Ones he bought or collected _himself_ for what she could only assume was for his own pleasure.

Did Erik pleasure himself to these books? Did he imagine himself in the gentleman’s place as she imagined herself in the lady’s? Did he, dare she hope, think of her as she thought of him when looking at and reading these? She quietly whimpered to herself at the thoughts and images rushing through her mind.

It was becoming too much, she decided.

Thus, with all previous thoughts of dutifulness to God out of sight, she removed the last of her petticoats, untied and pushed down her drawers, rolled off her stockings, and lay upon the heavenly soft bedding, chemise bunched around her slim waist and book propped against a thick, fluffy pillow.

Eyes locked on the image, she slid her fingers down to her swollen folds, gasping as she was met with slick wetness that slowly pooled onto the silk beneath her.

Christine did not consider herself very adept at pleasuring herself, either through impatience or fear of discovery she found herself continuously unsatisfied and unable to reach the crescendo she felt was lurking just below the surface of her self-explorations. Yet, as she lightly pressed her forefinger against the aching, swollen bud of her sex she felt as though, assisted by the insistent erotic thoughts of her teacher and the literature around her person, she would surely reach it at any moment.

At that thought, she was again reminded of the advice given by the venerable Madame and parted her chemise to give a light pinch to the peak of her left breast. That, in combination with the attentions to her womanhood, was shockingly delightful.

Shocking enough that Christine felt compelled to cry out in pleasurable surprise.

Working her nipple softly and pressing her fingers against herself with the thoughts that had lain dormant for so long blooming into vivid images of her Maestro’s hands replacing her own, soft moans and whimpers escaped her lips punctuated by the occasional exclamation as she momentarily reached a burst of pleasure, unconcerned with anything other than what she was doing at that very moment.

So invested and vigorous was she in riding this wave of arousal that she forgot to hear the rapid sound of footsteps reaching the outside of her door and the telltale creak of the turning doorknob.

“Christine, my dear, are you alright? What ha-”

For a horrifying moment, Christine stared wide-eyed at Erik, in his shirtsleeves, with a scream stuck in her throat, her hair and spectacles askew, naked legs splayed to reveal her fingers within the very visible folds of her sex, breasts exposed with one being caressed by her other hand, sweaty and red, and, worst of all, surrounded by nearly twenty books dealing exclusively with the subject of sex.

She felt his eyes dart over her form, for less than a second, before he promptly exited the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

“Erik!”

“Christine!”

She heard him brace himself against the Bois de Rose door of her bedroom. Christine was so wholly mortified she felt that she would surely drop dead at any moment. Pressing her face into a nearby pillow, she rose from her place on the bed, allowing her chemise to fall to its usual length just below the knee, wiped her soaked fingers on a nearby washcloth and fell to her knees before her side of the door, her mouth still open in absolute horror and humiliation.

“Christine, I-”

“I am so, so sorry, Erik!”

There was a pause.

“What on Earth are you sorry for?” he sounded more puzzled than angry.

“For taking your books and defiling your home and generosity towards me!”

She heard a sound that seemed half exasperation and half something she wasn’t familiar with.

“Christine, you know that everything in this house is yours. I’m the one who’s in the wrong,” he seemed to think for a moment, “I was under the impression that those noises you were making were ones of distress and pain which is obviously incorrect.”

She wished she knew what he was thinking. Or at least know what his face looked like.

“You,” he gave a deep, raspy breath, “are free to pleasure yourself as often and as long as you please here.”

_God. God, God, God, God, God, God, God_. She was going to die any second now, she was sure.

She can never, ever face him again. She’ll have to run away, yes that’s right she’ll run away back to Sweden, change her name to Eufemia and live in a little hut in the woods where she’ll never have to speak to him or anyone else ever again.

She was sure he did not intend for her to hear the soft, deep groan he made through the door. Her earlier wonderings began to replace her panic and were only amplified as her heart slowed and the shock of their encounter wore off, substituting itself with a heavy cloud of shame.

“Erik?” she squeaked out

“Yes, my dear?”

“I still feel as though I should apologize, I,” a heavy breath ran through her as she roughly pulled her cream-colored locks behind her ears, “I shouldn’t have done something like that”

She paused, misery filling her heart.

“You probably think me a slattern.”

She felt as though she could weep. She wanted to be as good as everyone thought she was and here she was, no better than a Beaubourg prostitute, exposing her most private parts to an unmarried gentleman who thought her an angel on Earth.  
  
“No!” he cried, “Christine is the most pure and sublime creature on this wretched Earth!”

He is in denial then, she thought. 

“Besides," he sighed, "I think masturbation hardly qualifies you to be _saucy_ much less a prostitute.”

Tears filled her eyes, how kind and generous he was to her even in such a predicament.

“But you _saw_.” she whimpered.

She heard him shift against the door.

“Erik will not have seen anything if Christine wishes it to be so.”

“Even if I wish it you’ll still have seen me! You can’t just forget that kind of thing,” He could probably tell she was crying at this point, blubbering through her protests.

Again, he paused.

“Erik may never, ever forget the sight of his sweet, beautiful Christine but he can make it seem as though he has.”

He thought her beautiful in such a state? Her mind wandered back to the Madame. She swallowed. 

“You say you love me, right?”

“Of course, Christine knows this already.”

“Do you,” she took a sharp breath, “Do you intend to marry me, then?”

He took a moment.

“Erik would very much like to, yes. The thought of Christine becoming his bride is,” he paused, “most exciting.”

Christine had a feeling that excitement held multiple meanings in this context. The thought of becoming his bride, a proper, innocent wife was both intensely thrilling and relieving. Perhaps, since he was to be her future husband, her exposure would not be so terrible after all. She continued,

“Do you intend to make me your bride in all the sense of the word, then?”

She so desperately wished to know what he was thinking.

“What do you mean by that exactly.”

Whether he was simply unsure or trying to goad her into embarrassing herself wasn’t clear but still, she pushed through the monumental shame.

“I mean, do you intend to consummate our marriage.”

The two of them paused for a second.

“If you do not wish to Erik would still be the happiest of men alive, you needn’t worry about your Erik.”

“But, do _you_ want to?”

He did not answer.

“Do you,” she had to take a moment to compose herself so as she would not burst into flames, “desire _me_ as a husband desires his wife?”

Still, he did not speak.

“Before you said I was beautiful, did you mean as I was when you saw me? Did you-” She gathered all the courage she had left in her.

“ _Desire_ what you saw?”

“More than you can ever know.” The sullen, honey-sweet words struck her core and made her heart burst with happiness. He _desired_ her, _her._ The humiliation melted away and the still unfulfilled ache emerged, desperate and whining.

Oh, how she wished he could know how much she wanted him.

“Does my Christine desire her Erik, then?” Christine shot up from her wallowing in desire at the unexpected statement.

Could she tell him? The logical side of her mind insisted that she have him go away and wallow in her despair, but her increasing lust begged her to follow his lead and see where they would end. Perhaps her fantasies were not so out of reach.

“I-”

“Did Christine think of her Erik while pleasuring herself?” his frankness startled her.

“I-“ she looked down at thighs pressing together to relieve some of the relentless pressure,

“yes.”

He hummed at that.

“Did my sweet Christine reach her crisis?” 

“N-no.” Her breath became labored and rush after rush of sensation flooded her body.

He hummed again.

“I-” she shuddered, “I don’t even know what I was doing I’ve never, never,” she trailed off.

“Never?” His voice was filled with both understanding and moderate delight.

She fell silent. Anything she had to say stuck itself in her throat as she pressed her burning face against the cool wood, resisting the urge to bang her head in embarrassment.

“Does my Christine wish for her Erik to pleasure her?”

She could only groan in response.

“Ah,” he purred “Does my sweet Christine _need_ her Erik to pleasure her?”

“He would take very good care of his poor, poor Christine, you know, if she wishes it.”

The temptation was too much, the _ache_ was too much for her, she felt as though she’d either melt into the floor or turn to stone if she did not get some sort of relief.

“Is it alright if I open the door a little?” she asked.

Once she heard him move his body away from the door, she slowly, nervously turned the handle and pulled the door open just enough so that she could put her head through. Adjusting her spectacles and pushing her frizzled hair behind her ears again, she timidly poked her head into the hallway and set gaze on the man before her.

She hadn’t really gotten a good look at him when he had so suddenly entered her room. He had gotten used to being maskless around her these past few months since she threw his first into the fireplace. She was sure he had more and was infinitely thankful that he chose to remain unmasked in front of her. His face, in itself, was still as horrifying and cadaverous as when she first removed his mask except now it was attached to a man she was surely in love with.

His waistcoat was absent, leaving him only in his slightly worn shirt and shepherd check trousers held up by delicately embroidered braces. He was frightfully thin, his joints jutting through the fabric of his clothes, yet he still held a certain elegant strength within his posture that made his body look significantly less concerning. It was this very same elegance that she found him holding before her as he sat back upon his hands, golden eyes watching her as she slowly crawled into the darkened hallway.

“I...hah…” She didn’t know what to say as she knelt before him gripping her chemise. She had to make the first move, she knew. He would never advance upon her, at least not as things were at that very moment. Shyness began to settle over her as she tore her eyes away and looked down at her lily-white hands, trembling lips pressed together.

“Please,” she whispered to him.

And in an instant, he took her hand from her leg and reverently kissed her palm.

Giving each of her tiny fingers a delicate, yet heady kiss he led his mouth to the delicate skin of her wrist, brushing his thin lips against it until he found her pulse point, giving it a wet kiss, stroking the skin beneath with his tongue and releasing her with a deep guttural moan.

“Oh, Christine is so good, such a good and pure girl for her Erik.”

He ran his mouth over the soft skin of her arm.

“To allow him to have a taste of his little bride,” he gave another wet kiss to the inside of her elbow, “ so good, so good.”

Christine whimpered as he lavished her with kisses and words of praise, half whining as he gave a kiss to her shoulder and buried what little face he had into her hair and neck, inhaling the scent of lilac soap and need, groaning and purring into her ear.

“May I?” His fingertips brushed against the loosened collar of her chemise.

“Please, please.” His hand dropped to brush the little protrusions through her chemise with his knuckles, earning a sharp breath as the feeling jolted to her center.

Humming lightly, he brushed them again, watching her reaction.

“How sweet my Christine is,” she softly moaned as he ran his fingers over her breasts, “how she must ache, my poor, sweet Christine.”

He threaded the loose ribbon through his spindly fingers, gasping as he parted the cloth to reveal her flushed chest and reddened nipples.

“How pretty she is for her wretched Erik,” He led her to lay back upon the woolen carpet, allowing him to draw his face near her, “what pretty little breasts,” she trembled as she felt his hot breath against the sensitive skin.

He tore his eyes away from her breast to look into hers, running his gaze over her blushing face.

“May Erik kiss his Christine?”

The sudden guffaw that left her surprised both of them.

“You ask that now?” she struggled to push down her laughter, face scrunching so as to prevent herself from breaking into a grin, “Most people kiss before...all this.”

She was half-worried he would become upset, with either himself or her, but he seemed to take it with relatively good humor.

“Yes, I suppose that would be the proper course of action," his face betrayed no emotion, "but I don't think the two of us are 'most people', do you?"

"I suppose not," she caught a twitch at the corner of his split lips, 

“I would very much like you to kiss me though,” he rose to gaze down into her wide eyes, her body flushed and mussed, trembling in anticipation, her lips parted.

With that he descended and touched his barely-there lips to her pink ones, kissing her repeatedly with increasing ravenousness, cooling her heated cheeks as he held them with his bony fingers.

“Oh, Christine,” he moaned between kisses, “how your Erik loves you,” his lips traveled across her face, kissing her cheek, brow, and eyelids.

“Let your Erik love you,” he murmured, placing another wet, messy kiss to her lips.

“Erik…” her brain felt unusually hazy, all she could find herself able comprehend was his broken lips on her skin and the electric need between her legs. She felt him hum against her in response to her plea.

After managing to open her eyes through the haze of pleasure she was met with the sight of him rocking his hips against the pillowy floor as his face, once again, hovered over her panting chest.

And took one of her aching peaks into his hot, wet mouth.

Gasping at the intensity of the feeling, Christine gripped the wisps of his hair as he sucked and licked at the sensitive flesh.

“How sweet my Christine tastes,” she jumped as he lightly ran his teeth over her, moving his mouth to her other breast and slipping a skeletal hand above to pinch and tweak the wet tip he left behind.

Running a hand beneath her, she felt herself arching her back as he pulled her chest closer to his mouth.

He lavished her, relishing in the squeaks and moans that left her lips as he explored her innocent, untainted skin.

“Erik…please,” he looked up into her hooded eyes, her lower lip clutched between her teeth and clasping her trembling hands to his, “I-I need you.”

He hummed

“I need you to...oh, _Erik_ ,”

“My poor, poor Christine. Your Erik has been cruel to you hasn’t he?” He shifted, inadvertently revealing the hardness straining through his trousers as he played with the flimsy straps of her chemise, “His little bride needs relief and he just makes it worse, poor, poor girl.”

His eyes darted from her pink face to her clenched thighs, the fabric bunched between them as she rubbed them together to gain some semblance of relief.  
  
“Poor darling,” his hands danced over to her feet and gently took her ankle, raising her leg to kiss the side of her dainty foot, “Your Erik will take care of you,” he kissed the inside of her ankle, then her knee before lifting her other leg to do the same.

She practically bucked when he placed a soft kiss on her inner thigh. He was so _close_ , so, so _close_ , she swore she could feel his breath upon her core and bucked again.

Then she felt him lift the fabric.

A flush of virginal embarrassment passed through her as she felt his eyes upon her swollen womanhood, his papery skin was as flushed as hers surely was yet his face, again, betrayed no emotion.  

“My God, Christine,” he spread her with his thumbs as her hands clutched her face, “so beautiful,” a thumb briefly left its place to brush her folds, making her cry out, “so, so wet, all for your Erik.”

He adjusted himself, lying between her splayed legs, sitting up with his elbows as he gently ran his fingers over her pretty thighs and hips before wetting his fingers with her and pressing a thumb into the aching bud before him.

“Erik!” she cried as indescribable pleasure seared through her.

he nuzzled and kissed her thigh, breathing in her scent, gently rolling the stiffened bud beneath his thumb, watching as she writhed under his touch.

“Christine,” she managed to clear the cloud of desire enough to push her eyeglasses to the proper position and look into his burning eyes.

“May Erik taste his Christine?” her mind shot back to the illustration from before. Did he mean, did he intend to do such a thing? Nervousness and delight swam through her brain as another jolt of arousal pulsed through her at the thought. She trusted him, no doubt whatever he was planning would not cause her any harm.

Thus, she firmly nodded with what little energy she had left.

He moaned and pressed his face against her exposed abdomen.

“How good Christine is to her Erik, how lovely is she to grant him such a joy. His Christine is truly an angel sent from above, how her Erik loves her,” with that he lifted her hips towards his flushed face, leaving her shoulders on the ground, placing her legs upon his own to give her sex a single, broad lick.

Christine nearly shrieked at the new sensation, clenching her chemise in her fists as her spectacles fell from her face, barely allowing her to notice the increasing intensity of the swivel of his bony hips as he ground himself into the carpet. She was quite certain she was going to reach absolute ecstasy at any moment, or die, either outcome was equally possible at that moment.

He groaned deeply against her as he lapped at her essence, clutching her to his face like a starving man, his lack of nose allowing him to ravage as much as possible without defiling her purity.

Her lack of vision proved to make his actions even more exhilarating and unpredictable, scarcely able to make out the vague shape of his sallow skin between her milky thighs as she felt him tongue and kiss her, igniting swell after swell of pleasure in her center.   

When he finally placed that aching, swollen bud between his lips he gave her a generous suck, half ignoring her bucking and cries as he worked the sensitive flesh with his mouth.

She felt her body tense up, her thighs beginning to shake uncontrollably. 

Her dreams of release were finally within grasp.

And, as he began to gently nurse at the weeping cluster of nerves, it began.

The buildup was, initially, slow as her sex began to contract to an almost painful degree, giving her cause to carefully (so as to not accidentally hit him in the face) grip his skull, unsure whether to pull him away to stop the overwhelming sensation or pull him closer to finally discover what she so desired.

In an instant, her fevered body was struck by lightning.

Her mind seemed to break apart and rearrange itself, white-hot light filling her vision as rapture pulsed from her core.

She distantly registered the sounds emerging from her, feeling more than hearing noise leave her throat as pleasure throbbed through her to the very tips of her fingers.

Her voice became clearer as she floated down, back to Earth. Half wails of ecstasy, half labored breathing as a velveteen voice nuzzled at her ear.

“Oh, Christine, Christine…” he cupped and pressed the heel of his hand against her, easing her out of the remaining shockwaves, leaving her sore and spent.

As she slowly regained her natural pace of breathing, she felt the cool frames of her spectacles being delicately placed on her face and was met with the adoring face of her Erik above her.

Trembling, she raised her hands to his sunken cheeks and shyly guided him down to her awaiting lips, tasting an odd flavor left over on his thin lips.

_Oh_ , she realized, _that’s me_.

Then a thought struck her.

She swiftly rose herself upon her trembling arms with a look of concern and slight bashfulness,

“Did-did you-?” her gaze drew to a wet spot on his now decidedly un-tented trousers.

He flushed in embarrassment, “I-” he paused for an instant, “Erik found himself unable to control himself, I’m afraid.”

She gave a heavy exhale as a thrill ran through her, inching closer to him and resting her frizzled head against his chest.

“Did it feel good?” she whispered softly.

“Yes. Very, very good,” he whispered back, “to give Christine such pleasure is...intoxicating.”

She pressed further in, clutching his slightly damp shirt,

“I like that.”

“Oh?” he hummed.

She only nodded in response, her bright red ears peeking from her disheveled hair.

For some time the two of them sat in their embrace, breathing with each other and falling half-asleep before Erik’s head shot up from its place in her hair and looked into the open door of Christine’s bedroom.

“So my Christine found Erik’s books, did she?” 

She looked up with shining eyes, a pretty blush upon her ivory skin.

“Don’t worry, I barely made it two books in,” she grumbled, “I cannot read most of them, anyway.”   

He hummed.

“I suppose you must have Erik read them to you, then."

She grinned against him.

**Author's Note:**

> Interestingly enough, I did not name this fic directly after Giovanni Boccaccio, known for The Decameron, but after one of the ending verses of Maurice Ravel's 1911 opera L'Heure Espagnole:
> 
> "C'est la morale de Boccace :  
> Entre tous les amants, seul amant efficace." 
> 
> (This is the moral of Boccaccio: among all lovers, only the effective one matters.) 
> 
> I just thought it was funny.
> 
> I thank you for reading <3


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